


Do You Know Who I Am?

by SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Ciri is helpfull, Cranky Geralt, Crossdressing Jaskier, First Time, M/M, Masquerade, Silent confessions, smut at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23133799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight/pseuds/SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight
Summary: “Thank you, kind witcher.” He startles some. He shouldn’t be surprised that she knows he’s a witcher. But there is something prickling on his skin. He trusts his instincts, but he needs into the manor.“Of course my lady.” She holds her hand out to him palm down. He understands, takes it in his free hand and kisses it lightly. She giggles a bubbly laugh from her throat at the act. She smells strongly of Lilac and Daffodils.“I am Lady Narcissus Oszust. Thank you for retrieving these.” She takes the items with her free hand. “The necklace was my mothers’ and the broach, my grandmothers.”  Her voice is a little deep for a woman but he doesn’t question it. He’s been around the continent enough to have met many people that seemed odd. Men with voices like women, women with faces like men, women with hair short as a man and men with hair as long as a woman. He lets it be without much thought. He’s seen many things.“How may I repay this debt?” She asks lightly. He smiles a little. He feigns uncertainty for a moment.“Oh, well. Perhaps, My lady… You see, I am looking for a friend of mine and I have reason to believe he may be at the celebration tonight, and I find myself, sadly, without an invitation.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 210





	Do You Know Who I Am?

**Author's Note:**

> I love assassins, and I love the idea of a cross dressing Jaskier, so here you all go. I hope you enjoy.  
> Let me know what you think? I might make this into something. We shall see. Maybe give you some exploits of what happens when Jaskier is a way.  
> Thank you Nerdynix for the beta. 
> 
> Oh and look up Jaskiers name.... It actually has a meaning. Maybe I'll put it in the end of chapter notes. 
> 
> Oh the smut is at the end and doesn't have to be read to enjoy the story. its denoted by:  
> xXxXx

Geralt has been looking for Jaskier for a week. Ciri is studying with Yen and he finds the silence on the road to be suffocating now. He won't admit it. Not ever to anyone, but he misses the sounds of company. Specifically he misses Jaskier. They had parted ways a while back, on mutual terms. Jaskier to go to some competition, where Geralt learned later he had won, unsurprisingly. And Geralt took Ciri to Yennefer. Yennefer had portaled him and Roach to Jaskiers last known location at his not so subtle suggestion. Both Girls had laughed as he had left. 

It wasn’t that funny, he thought, but then perhaps they both knew how he felt for the bard. They were keen like that. He growled lowly. He and Yennefer were reconciled enough that they could do what needed to be done, and had become quite amiable friends. And now that the dust had settled and Yennefer had up and portaled her and Jaskier away for a few hours things were very good between them all. He still didn’t know what they had talked about; but when they had come back, Jaskeir despite his obviously red and puffy eyes, was smiling and laughing at Yens jokes. He accepted it for what it was. Their banter on the outside seemed harsh but it was like the two of them had some kind of understanding. They knew their boundaries, and stayed within them. Geralt smiled at the thought. 

It had taken him a while to reconcile with Jaskier, and it was thanks to Cirilla, really, that it had happened at all. It had gone like this. He was low on coin so he left Ciri at the inn to go on a hunt. Paid the innkeeper's wife to keep the girl fed and safe while he was away. Said she was his niece come ward. She had agreed, and Geralt reluctantly left to deal with the creature. It would only be a night. “She'll be fine” he had thought. It took two. When he returned he found Ciri at the darkest most secluded table in the inn. She had picked that up from him, and with her was Jaskier. Neither seemed to notice his arrival so he stood out of sight where he could listen. 

“C- sorry, Fiona he’s been gone two days and it was what?”  
“Vampires I think.”  
“Oh Melitele's sakes, he’ll be fine.”  
“You’re sure?”  
“Yes, probably he had to track down a few stragglers.”  
“Oh.”  
“Chin up sweetheart, he’ll be back soon.”  
“I trust you Dandelion. Thank you. It’s good to have a familiar face around.”  
“It’s good to see you too, Little lion. Have you had supper?” The rustling of fabric, a shook head.  
“Well then why don’t the three of us eat.”  
“Three?”  
“Oh yes, Geralts, just listening in and brooding.”  
“What? Really? Where?” Ciri said looking around.  
“How’d you know?” Geralt asks perturbed that the bard had noticed him but not said anything or given himself away. Had he always been this observant, this sneaky, he had wondered.  
“The atmosphere, dear witcher, always changes when people notice you. My job is to be aware of my audience.” Jaskeir responded not looking away from Ciri who was making a face at Geralt.  
“You said one night! Liar.”  
“Hmm.”  
“I’ll just go order food.” Jaskier left the table.

When he returns to the table he doesn’t sit. He looks at Geralt with a very particular look. There is anger in it. He taps the table and Geralt meets his eyes. He nods and stands. 

“We’ll be right back dear one.” Dandelion winks at Ciri and leads Geralt into the back alley. It’s late. The sun has set. They stand there while a cart pushes past the mouth of the dimly lit alley. Jaskier gave one more look around and Geralt is about to ask him what he wants. Because he’s angry and guilty and relieved all at once and can’t process it. 

“YOU! YOU!” Jaskier drops his voice from a shout to a low, dangerous tone.  
“You fucking arse! What the hell were you thinking leaving a fourteen year old girl alone in a seedy tavern inn! Not just a fourteen year old girl. Princess Cirilla! What if someone had noticed her. Recognized her! Geralt you are a fool if I ever met one. What the bloody-” he cuts off, takes a breath and gets in Geralt's face. “Do you even know what could have happened to her? Do you? Slave trade. A crime lord who saw a pretty little girl and decided he needed her. What the fuck Geralt.” His voice is dangerous and low, his eyes wide and full of rage, hurt, pain. 

“What if I wasn’t me? What if it was someone else who had sat beside her and was able to convince her that he was a safe person? She knows me. I’ve played in Cintra since Pavetta and Duny. Do you ever think? Oh nevermind, we know the answer to that. You don’t. You just fucking act. Consequences be damned. Then you don’t take responsibility for them, but if something had happened to her it would have been your fault and you’d have no one to blame. What then? That's it, like it or not I’m going with you. You obviously can’t be trusted with her well being.” He crossed his arms in challenge without leaving Geralt's space. 

He hadn't spoken. Just swallowed and gave a stiff nod. He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut by Vesemir during training.  
“Oh no. No. You're going to tell me you understand you big oaf.Your going to tell me it won’t happen again and then you’re going to make sure it doesn’t or I’ll run you through with your own sword. Poison you with your own damned potions. Am I clear?” 

He blinked, who was this man? 

“Yes, Jaksier. I understand.” He nods, transfixed by the man in a sea of colors before him. “ It would be good of you to join us.” He wasn’t sure what had changed for the bard, but he was fiercer and this anger was genuine and righteous. What was he to do? The bard would come with him asked or not. He turned towards the door. 

“Oh, and Geralt.” Voice softer now, heart rate just as even and steady. “ It’s good to see you.” He’d stopped and turned to him then, 

“Likewise. I- I’m glad you’re well. And…” silence hangs between them, Jaskier arches an eyebrow at him waiting. “I’m sorry. You’re right… not just about this, but me, my faults.” 

“We’ll work on it.” Then the bard had brushed past him and swept into the tavern. Shortly after that he’d managed a real apology for the mountain incident. Jaskier had laughed, called him a fool and forgiven him all in a single breath. Ciri clung to Jaskier like a life line and so it was good that he had stayed. 

Roach snorts bringing him from his memories. They are nearing a new city. Jaskier had left the other one and Geralt hoped from what he gleaned that he would be here. He missed him. He really did, though he’d not say as much. 

The town had a fair going. Of course it did, or some kind of large gathering. A festival. He shakes his head and wrinkles his nose. The scents are overwhelming. It takes a while before he finds an inn with a free room available. A little one on the far end of town from where he had entered. It's better than nothing he supposes. Roach is happy in the town stables so he starts looking around. The town had just started this celebration, it was for the harvest. The main square was a bustle of colour and loud noise. Vendors from all over selling their wares and catching the attention of any passerby they can. The market smells of food and sweat and ale. The perfumes are strong and many. There is no way he will be able to scent Jaskier out if the entire town smells like this. Every inn and tavern had. He looks around still breathing deeply, and gods forbid Jaskier changed his perfumes. He growls. The best he can do is check out taverns at night, watch the square and its musicians by day. Keep his ears open for any mention of or sound from the bard. 

He’s walking towards the music when he whips his head around suddenly. He’d caught the slightest hint of a familiar scent, but it was too muddled to make it out. He scans the area. There is much to notice, much more to ignore. Something does catch his eye though. A woman with broader shoulders than most. Her hair is shoulder length and blond, done in curls using hot tongs. A hat sits atop her head with a peacock plume in it. This is what caught his attention. One is white the other is colored. She stands with the other woman by this silk cart and smiles, turned just enough from him that he can’t quite make it out. He does a double take. He stares but the woman doesn’t turn towards him. Instead she walks the other direction arm in arm with another lady. An amber and midnight blue silk shawl in her other hand. He huffs, annoyed and continues on his way. He can feel eyes on him, but that's nothing new, so he ignores it. 

He stays in the town two days. He keeps hearing whispers of Jaskier playing, but never seems to be in the right place at the right time. The city is large and over crowded. There are people in tents filling the field outside the city gates. The festival is large and there is a ball two days from now at the house of the nobleman who rules over the city. One needs an invitation to get in, and yet he intends to go despite that. If Jaskier will be anywhere it will be there. As he walks back to his inn, he keeps to himself and takes the alleys. Even these are crowded. It’s late so there is more room. Most of them are unlit which isn’t a problem for him. What is a problem is a woman with long brown hair braided down one side being chased into his path by a shouting group of men. She runs past him, knocking against his side in the dark. She stumbles. 

“Where’d the bitch go?” He hears one of them shout.

“Down the alley!” Another says angrily. Without thinking he grabs her arm and pushes her against the wall, effectively blocking her body from their view. 

“Don’t scream.” He whispers in her ear. “I won't harm you. Play along.” He keeps his voice light as he can. She nods. Blue eyes down cast. Are they blue? He can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. He leans into her. Lets a hand rest low on her waist, the other on the wall behind her. She buries the fingers of one hand in his hair. His breath ghost her neck. She smells strongly of spice and too much chamomile. Medicine. He wrinkles his nose. One of the spices making him want to sneeze with its strength. She lifts her skirt above one knee and leans into him hiding her face in his shoulder. The men start to pass, one of them stops. 

“A girl run past here?”

“Busy.” He snarls. The men move on. Only when he can't hear them does he move back to the other side of the narrow alley.  
The girl lets her hands fall to her sides, then keeping her face down cast plays nervously with her braid. 

“You alright?” He asks voice its normal level of gruff. He rubs at his nose. His eyes water. She nods fervently. 

“What was that about?” The girl swallows. Her voice is pitched a little high and it grates on his ears. He shakes his head. 

“ ‘ook eh loaf o’br'd from me M'ster, for me brotter sir.”  
He nod’s satisfied. 

“Don’t get caught next time.” He starts for the mouth of the alley way. He can hear her follow but doesn’t look back. She goes the opposite direction from him. He sniffs. His nose is dead to the scents around him and it makes him angry. He quickened his pace and rubs at his ears. 

When he returns to the inn he washes his face three times and changes but the scent is still there. It seared to the inside of his nostrils. He send his clothes to be washed. He glares at the ceiling. He knows Jaskier is here. He just can’t find him. He keeps catching his scent, hidden, buried, weak but there. He keeps hearing whispers that a well known bard is there, but he can’t seem to be in the same place. He growls. He knows that the ball is his best shot. He just needs to figure out how to get in. 

The following afternoon, the day of the ball, he’s in one of the side squares. There's a fountain in the middle and children play in its water. It’s unusually warm for an autumn day. He continues to look for signs of his friend. Because that he will admit. Jaskier is his friend. He watches as all members of society move around the smaller square. He notices a woman who looks familiar. A peacock feather in her hat. She walks with the grace of all noblewoman. She’s pretty, he notes, a little flat chested. She pales her skin with powder and colors her lips a purple. It suits her. It happens very quickly. A man, a thief grabs something of hers and she yells. The guards can’t get to him from their locations and he looks as though he will make it out of the square with whatever it is he had grabbed. He smirks. This is his chance. Catch the thief and maybe a grateful noblewoman can get him into the ball. Casually he moves into the thieves path and stares him down. 

“It doesn’t suit you. Give it here.” The thief steps back, looks for an alternate escape. He's about to change course.

“Don’t make me maim you.” Geralt says, still smirking, hand reaching for his sword. The Thief looks up at him, lip quivering. Geralt gives him a meaningful look and his shoulders slump. He hands the items out to him. 

“Please here. Take them, just let me pass. Please.” He begs quickly. Geralt takes the items, considers it a moment and says, 

“If they catch you you’re on your own.” Then he steps aside. The guards give him an incredulous look and chase after the thief. Carefully he approaches the woman with the peacock feather. Smiles just barely. Trying for human, trying to use every trick Jaskier had taught him. He can hear the bard lecturing him in his head. “Yes, there's a good smile. No teeth, keep your eyes soft. There. That's the one. That's how you should smile at balls and towards people in general.” It was hours of practice with Jaksier poking and prodding his face Ciri laughing beside them at night. The lady hides her face behind her fan, keeps her eyes turned down. 

“These belong to you. I believe.” He bows slightly holding a gold necklace and a broach out to her. 

“Thank you, kind witcher.” He startles some. He shouldn’t be surprised that she knows he’s a witcher. But there is something prickling on his skin. He trusts his instincts, but he needs into the manor.

“Of course my lady.” She holds her hand out to him palm down. He understands, takes it in his free hand and kisses it lightly. She giggles a bubbly laugh from her throat at the act. She smells strongly of Lilac and Daffodils, he can just barely make it out. His nose is still dead from the night before. 

“I am Lady Narcissus Oszust. Thank you for retrieving these.” She takes the items with her free hand. “The necklace was my mothers’ and the broach, my grandmothers.” Her voice is a little deep for a woman but he doesn’t question it. He’s been around the continent enough to have met many people that seemed odd. Men with voices like women, women with faces like men, women with hair short as a man and men with hair as long as a woman. He lets it be without much thought. He’s seen many things. 

“How may I repay this debt?” She asks lightly. He smiles a little. He feigns uncertainty for a moment. 

“Oh, well. Perhaps, My lady... You see, I am looking for a friend of mine and I have reason to believe he may be at the celebration tonight, and I find myself, sadly, without an invitation.” He will suffer one night at her side if it means finding Jask. He hopes however, that she will simply have him added as a guest of hers and that will be the end of it. She flicks her crystalline blue eyes along his body, but never meets his gaze. 

“Do come better dressed than that. And I expect at least one dance from you.” Then she turns. “Oh I suppose I need your name for the list.” She adds over her shoulder, face hidden by a curtain of blond curls.

“Geralt of Rivia.” He grins, a little too sharply.

“I’ll see you tonight, White Wolf.” 

He makes his way back to the inn with determination. He orders a bath. He has a few hours to kill before the celebrations begin. He takes his time, treats his hair as Jaskier would insist. Dressed in clean clothes, the set Jaskier insisted he keep in his pack should they need to infiltrate a noble estate, he ties his hair back. It goes against all his instincts but he leaves his swords. Instead he places a dagger at his waist, neatly hidden, it's a thin blade, and a knife in his boot. His instincts tell him there is something amiss. He meditates. And when the sun is low enough he makes his way towards the manor. They are expecting him. No one stops him as he makes his way up the main entrance on rounded steps. A fountain, shaped like a siren sending spray into the air at their base. 

Once inside he makes his way to the main hall. It opens into a garden behind the large mansion. A cool breeze blows through the open doors, it’s pleasant against the warmth of bodies pressed into the confines of the room. It brings with it the scent of fresh cut flowers, and autumn air. The golden glow of the sun cast long shadows across the marble floor, it’s fading quickly. He remains at the edge of the room, in the shadows, watching, waiting. He sips at an ale that he takes from one of the many servants. There is no sign of Jaskier among the musicians or nobles yet. So he waits. It would be much easier if it weren't a masquerade. 

“Find your friend yet?” He turns to look the woman over. Narcissa is standing to his left, blond hair done up without a hat. The amber and dark blue shawl cover her shoulders, the sleeves of her dress are long and flowing. The gown itself is deep midnight blue, or perhaps it more closely resembles the ocean at midnight. Amber thread binds it together and there are golden accents like stars on the sleeve edges and the corset. It stirs something in him. Her face is hidden behind a mask, half like a burning sun, half like a slumbering moon. Two halves of the whole. 

“Not yet.”  
“Perhaps, you could tell me his name. And here, I forgot to mention this affair was a masked ball.” She hands him a mask, in the shape of a wolf's snout. Its white, and soft. She sips some wine. She wears delicate gloves also of white. Geralt realizes this woman is a complete mystery. If pressed he isn’t sure he could describe her face. The jaw is strong up close, but also slightly round, innocent looking. The chalks make it look thinner, more feminine. He furls his eyebrows and nods, donning the mask. 

“That’s better. Now his name?” She smiles at him behind her mask. 

“Jaskier. He's a bard.”

“ And a Lettenhoven.” He narrows his eyes at her behind the mask. 

“ Don’t worry. I know Julian quite well. Though, I cannot say with certainty that he will be here.” She frowns. Geralt let out a sigh. 

“Will you be staying the duration of the evening?” 

“Only until I am satisfied he won’t be here.” 

“Then perhaps I should claim my dance now.” He clenches his jaw and then aquiessaces. They move to join the dancers. Narcissa is an exceptional dancer, and he finds that he enjoys dancing with her. So when she asks for a second, he agrees. They don’t speak much but she occasionally bats her eyelashes at him, squeezes his arm, or lets her hands brush against his hair, down is back. Finally another Lord wishes to dance with her and he returns to his spot on the wall. He finds it difficult not to watch her. There is something ethereal about her, too mysterious and his senses are telling him something isn’t right. She’s not a vampire. He can tell that much, even from here. He begins going through a list, but is pulled from his thoughts when the clock strikes the tenth hour. He’d leave if he weren’t so concerned about what Narcissa is. It's obvious the bard won't be here. He knows he’s spent too many days here. But he had been certain. He added that to the list of confusions in his mind. He watches Narcissa for a while longer. Occasionally she makes eye contact with him across the room and smiles. 

Just after the eleventh bell, one of the lady’s collapses in the middle of the dance floor. Instantly the comotion begins. Someone shouts for a doctor, others go rushing towards her, trying to help. Geralt recognizes her as the woman who had been with Narcissa the day at the market. It's blurry but he’s almost certain of it. He looks around swiftly and catches the train of her dress sweeping across marble leading into the hall. He navigates across the room, blocked far too often by some person or another. He straightens his shoulders and people move for him. He casts the mask to the side, and that hasens his pace as people actually part for him. A witcher on the hunt. When he enters the hallway no one is there. He growls. He continues onward, he can barely make out her scent. He follows it straight out the front door. 

Neither guard looks up from their game so he presses onward into the brisk night. He follows, breaks into a run even. She can’t have gone far, but she is fast. She takes all the alleys, avoids the main streets and well lit places. He stops abruptly. Her scent at the door of his inn. He swallows and enters, a cursory look around reveals that she isn’t in the main room. He follows her scent up the stairs, slowly. He removes the stiletto blade from his waist. Or he tries to. It’s gone. He reaches for the knife in his boot. Carefully he pushes the door to his room open. He steps inside. Narcissa sits on his bed, legs crossed, her chin propped on her hand, elbow on her knee, curled in on herself, completely relaxed and pouting. In her other hand lies his blade. He inhales sharply. There is excitement in the air, radiating from her. Familiar. The room is lit by a few well placed candles and the fireplace stoked hot and bright. It casts shadows about the room, but Geralt can see Lady Narcissa clearly.

“Do you know who I am?”

“An assassin.” She leans back on his bed, supporting her weight on her hands. Exposing herself to him, almost playfully. She’d known where he was staying and had fled there. He clenches his jaw. ‘What does she want?’ 

“Oh Geralt. Of course I am, that’s a part of me trained from birth. But it’s not what I asked. Do you know Who I am?” She moves and he moves faster. His only weapon is the knife in his hand. He won't need it though. They fall backwards, his knee between her legs, arms locked above her head in one hand and his blade at her throat in the other. She looks up at him from beneath the mask, smirking, and laughs. He goes ridgid. He knows this laugh inside and out, blind, would know this laugh, deaf he would know this smile. 

“Jask?”

“This has been a fun game of cat and mouse. Tell me love, do you like me all dolled up for you?” He swallows and looks down at swirling blue eyes. They meet his gaze for the first time. 

“Jask?” he asks again. 

“Geralt?” With an unsure hand he pulls the mask off. He doesn’t shift his position or lose his hold. 

“Hello darling. Do I look good in a dress?” He licks his lips. 

“Yes.” It falls from his mouth before he can stop himself. 

“What about pressed against the dark wall of an ally?” Geralt stares at him confused. Jaskier pouts. 

““ ‘ook eh loaf o’br'd from me M'ster —”

Geralt stands abruptly and stares at him wildly, face contorting in an array of emotions. Finally he whines, 

“You fucking destroyed my nose.” He rubs at it instinctively, the memory causing it to burn.

“Only temporarily, Geralt, nothing permanent. I just couldn’t risk you catching my scent.”

“What the fuck?” 

Jaskier stands and goes to the washing basin. He wets a rag and sets to work removing the makeup.  
“Subterfuge me friend. Lady J— and her family were getting rather pesky. I was asked to resolve the issue.” He says like it's not a big deal that he’d just killed a woman. 

“How?”

“A concoction of nightshade and hemlock in her wine. Very effective, no mess, easy enough to  
slip to her.” 

“But why?”

“Because I was asked too and had access.”

“No I mean. Fuck. Jaskier when did you..”

“Oh this, I’ve always been able to. Part of my training growing up around nobles, you learn quickly how to deal with enemies. I just happen to be an actor and I didn’t want it connected to the Lettenhovens in any way. It would ruin my reputation.” The bard smiles cheekily at him, face clean. 

“Why...” He gestures at the gown and swallows. Something about it being Jaskier in the gown  
has him reeling. He pushes it aside, he can’t let it in. 

“I’d be recognized or noticed if I’d been a man. People would think I was trying to court her… to many variables. A new female friend at court that came from nowhere and disappeared, much harder to trace.” He smirks at Geralt from the dresser. 

“When did you take my dagger?”

“Second dance, when you were trying to figure out what kind of monster I was and not rip my hands off for taking liberties.” He winks. Geralt tears his jacket off in frustration. 

“You've been in this town the entire time dressed as a woman.” He seethes. 

“You looked right at me. I just couldn’t tell you anything. I thought you’d get a clue from my color scheme. Daft as always.” 

“What?” He looks at the bard again.

“Blue and amber? The color of our eyes.The peacock feathers? Oh you foolish man.” Jaskier frowns at him. Geralt can only stare in disbelief. 

“Is this what you were doing? Is this where your courage came from?” 

“I’ve always had it. I just didn’t think I’d ever need to use it on you. Then I did.” Jaskier pushes off the dresser and glides towards him. He stops short, chest inches from Geralts and looking up at him through his eyelashes whispers, 

“Get me out of this dress, witcher.” 

xXxXx 

Geralt looks at him, stiff and unmoving. The dam in his mind breaking free, dislodging well hidden thoughts. Jaskier tilts his head, hair falling off it and exposing his neck. 

“Or am I mistaken?” He asks with false shyness. Geralt doesn’t miss a beat. He launches forward and kisses Jaskier hard on the mouth. The Bard smiles into it, fisting his hands into the witcher's shirt. He pulls away to catch his breath all too soon. 

“I swear to every god, if you rip this gown or my corset I’ll make you beg for me.” Geralt promptly spins him around picking up one of his knives in the process and cuts through the laces of the corset. He pushes the sleeves of the dress from Jaskier shoulders and kisses them instead. Jaskier pulls the corset from around his chest and lets it fall to the ground. He shrugs the rest of the dress off. Geralt tugs at the fabric of the chemis and pulls it roughly over Jaskiers head. The bard laughs. 

“Why the hell are there so many layers?” He whispers, dragging his teeth across Jaskiers neck. The wig came undone and Jaskier tosses it to the side. 

“Virtue?” He deadpans as he turns to face Geralt in nothing but his underclothes. Jaskier tugs at his shirt and Geralt kisses him again, deep and wanting. He can feel Jaskier working the buttons of his shirt. He breaks the kiss only to pull it over his head, and then he’s licking back into Jaskiers mouth. It tastes sweet, likthe wine from earlier. He explores, threading his fingers through Jaskiers hair while the bard undoes his trousers. He tugs sharply when he feels them get pushed down and Jaskier moans. The bard pulls away and pushes more urgently at the pants. 

“You’ll get as good as you give if you keep that up.” Geralt growls, low in his throat and kicks his trousers to the floor. Then they kiss again and Jaskier pulls at his hair just as hard. He groans into it. 

He lifts Jaskier and feels his legs tighten around his waist. He moves his mouth to suck at his throat and the bard throws his head back and moans. Geralt bites down. He knows Jaskier will tell him to stop if he goes too far or if he hurts in any way, but the way the other jerks against him says he doesn’t have to worry. He knows Jaskier, knows he doesn’t have to be as gentle, as careful as he does with the others he’d taken to bed in the past. He settles Jaskier on the bed and tosses his dagger to the floor. Neither of them needs to be stabbed with a real blade. 

Jaskier tugs at his hair again, frantically and squirms. He understands. Standing he removes the last of his clothes and Jaskier does likewise, kicking them off the edge of the bed. He looks down at the bard, fully undressed and aroused below him. Jaskier makes eye contact with him, and makes a show of stretching out to be seen. 

Geralt licks his lips and takes a step back towards the bed. Then he stops. 

“You're sure?” Jaskier laughs at him, that heavenly sound that Geralt wishes he could put in a bottle to listen to at his convenience. 

“I don’t sprawl myself out for just anyone.”  
“You do.”  
“Haven’t in years.”  
“Oh.”  
Jaskier sits up, leans on his hands, “Seriously? Really? You oaf. Get down here.” And then they’re crashing against each other and it's glorious. Jaskier rut’s up against him and doesn’t make any attempt to be less vocal. Geralt lets him, shivering in delight when he adds a hand to the mix, deft fingers working in all the right ways. He lets out a soft moan against the newest bruise on Jaskiers collarbone. 

“Fuck me.” He says against the bards neck. 

“Is that an option?” Jaskier asks, completely surprised. 

Geralt looks at him, all innocent curiosity on his face and fire burning through the lust in his eyes. 

“It is now.” He says and Jaksier is pushing him up and backwards and he lets himself be manhandled. It’s been a while since he allowed someone this control, but Jaskier. Jaskier has control of every other part of him,whether he knows it or not so why not this? He looks up at the smaller man. 

“You're sure?” The bard copies. He nods.  
“Say it, Damn it Geralt. Use your words.” He flushes at the command.  
“Yes Jaskier. Please.” A glint in the musicians eyes.  
“Please what?” Geralt groans as hands position his legs just the way they’re wanted.  
“Fuck me.”  
“Hmm…” a pause “uhm.” Geralt looks up at him confused and exasperated. He’d like to get on with it. The abruptness of the pause is grating and not at all like he expected from Jaskier.  
“Oil?” Jaskier asks. 

Silence. 

Geralt leans back into the bed and laughs almost hysterically. His cock is so hard it’s almost painful from the way they’ve been touching and teasing. Jaskier leans over him with a quirked eyebrow and a deadly expression on his face. 

“I will kill you if you don’t shut up and suck.” 

There are fingers near his lips, he grins and teasingly takes them into his mouth. Jaskier maintains eye contact the entire time. He sucks each finger individually, coating them thoroughly in saliva, runs his tongue up and down each one, sometimes catching them with his teeth. He Moans when Jaskier pushes more than one into his mouth at the same time. He watches through half lidded eyes as Jaskier swipes his own precum down his cock, uses his own spit to slick it. Finally he pulls his fingers free from Geralt's mouth, trails his pinky also soaked down his chest, his abdomen, around his cock and down to his entrance. He tenses and takes a steadying breath. He forces himself to relax. Jaskier watches him, waits until he’s comfortable and presses his index finger inside. It's been sometimes since he was so vulnerable and Jaskier seems to know it. The bard leans forward and peppers kisses along his thigh, his hip bone, anything he can reach. After a while he adds a second and a third. He teases Geralt's cock with his tongue and occasionally his other hand, he never takes more than the tip into his own mouth, giving soft sucks as it pleased him too. Abruptly Geralt lets out a gasp as his hips twitch. He feels Jaskier smile against him. 

“Jask, please” he says horsley. The bard obliges, makes sure that he’s as well slicked as he can be without proper lubricant and presses against the witcher. 

“How are you this tight.” He chokes out, pressing in at a painfully slow rate. “Will you relax please, Geralt.” The witcher does as he’s told. Finally Jaskier is seated inside him. It satisfied something in him that he hadn’t realized he was missing. They stay like that unmoving for a moment, catching their breath. Jaskier leans over and kisses him, and he groans into it, the movement pleasant as it forces Jaskier a little deeper. Slowly, the bard begins to rock against him, he doesn't move all the way out, not at first. It's a rhythmic rolling of hips against hips. Eventually they pick up speed and if anyone were outside their room the only thing they would hear was the obscene sound of skin against sweat slicked skin, erotic moans of pleasure, the words, “More, harder, fuck, Jask, shit, and gods above Geralt”.

It doesn’t take long for the foreignness of it to push Geralt over the edge. It’s a good new, something he could get used to; something that he enjoys. His own release brings Jaskier over the edge just as quickly, he pulls out just in time to spill on his hand and Geralt's chest. The witcher just laughs and pulls him against the mess between them and kisses him breathless again. 

“You should wear Lilac and Daffodil more.” Gealt whispers against his ear when they’ve cleaned themselves as well as possible, and curled together under the blankets.  
“Lilac is Yennefer's scent...” Jaskier trails off looking up at him from the circle of his arms, chest to chest.  
“It smells better on you.” He says meaning it, and gives the poet a pointed kiss. He isn’t great with words, so he hopes it's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So Narcissa is in relation to the latin term for Daffodile. Narcissus, changed to Narcissa to be a name. 
> 
> Oszust according to google is polish meaning "cheater" synonymous with "deceiver, hoodlum, fraud" etc. :)


End file.
